Theatre in Review: Hungry (The Public Theater)

	Maryann Plunkett, Lynn Hawley, Meg Gibson. Photo: Joan Marcus

One of the great things about Richard Nelson's plays is that they force you to listen -- hard. Nelson doesn't underline anything or spell it out, nor does he whip up any spurious histrionics. His characters rarely, if ever, raise their voices; most of the time, they seem to be focused on mundane matters. Yet, if you really attend to what they are saying, you will detect very real signs of distress; the ground beneath them is shifting, perhaps radically, and they don't like it one bit.

As in his Apple Family Plays, Nelson has convened another group of middle-aged siblings, the Gabriels, and has them talk about everything under the sun; Hungry takes place on March 4, 2016 (the night of its press opening), and, inevitably, the conversation turns toward the current election. (Hungry is the first of a new cycle of three plays; two more will open at the Public this year, each of them keyed to a single date in 2016.) Nelson pioneered this kind of theatre-as-newspaper format, which makes unusual demands on his actors; they surely must receive new pages of dialogue right up until opening night, since the discourse references the most current of events. (One line in Hungry mentions an exchange between Donald Trump and Megyn Kelly that had occurred a night or two before the opening performance.)

Nelson is, however, first and foremost a playwright, and before the conversation turns to this incredible primary season, he establishes a web of relationships complex enough to be fruitfully explored over the course of this and the next two plays. Again, as with the Apple Family Plays, we are in Rhinebeck, New York, this time in the home of the recently widowed Mary Gabriel. Her husband, Thomas, a playwright felled by Parkinson's disease, has just been buried and Mary fends off sorrow by making a meal. Also in attendance are George, Thomas' brother, a piano teacher and cabinetmaker; Hannah, George's wife, who works for a local caterer; Joyce, Thomas' sister, an assistant costume designer; and, somewhat unusually, Karin, Thomas' first wife, an actress and teacher. Waiting in the wings until near the end is Patricia, Thomas' cool, critical, and increasingly infirm mother.

Nelson is a master at exploring knotty family dynamics, and it seems as if almost every other line in Hungry reveals something about the emotions and conflicts that bind the Gabriels. "Our mother, Karin, never says what she means," says George, hinting at the frustration of a lifetime spent trying to appease an implacable parent. Joyce, who apparently disappointed her mother by not pursuing a musical career, anxiously plays the piano for her, hastily trying to forestall any negative comments by insisting that she hasn't practiced in six months. Joyce recalls how Patricia, in her version of sex education, left her copy of The Joy of Sex lying around, for her to find. Mary, explaining Karin's presence to the baffled Patricia, says, "I was Thomas' third wife, Patricia. There was one between us. We both hate her." And Karin, an elegant and lonely figure, first insists that she can only stay a minute, then invites herself to dinner, and, later, makes noises about staying the night.

At the same time, a series of dissatisfactions, both big and small, are eating away at their collective way of life. A visit to the local Roosevelt museum, once beloved by all, proves disappointing. "You feel like they are pushing things on you now," Joyce comments, "like you can't think for yourself." Dubious vendors have begun to prey on Patricia, tricking her into ponying up for unnecessary home improvements. (Events like these have hastened her being sent to an assisted living facility; also, as George notes, "Ever since Thomas died, Mom has seemed scared.") And the Rhinebeck area has become infested with wealthy weekenders from New York, throwing their weight and cash, around in displays of conspicuous consumption. Talking about working at an especially vulgar wedding, Hannah notes acidly that her company was reduced to merely serving: "They're New Yorkers, so they have their own caterer. Their own New York food." Later, she says, "You just get the feeling, listening to them talk to each other, that they really believe they deserve all they've got. Somehow earned it. So they want to do good and they deserve to be rich. Is she like them?"

"She" is Hillary Clinton, the focus of an increasingly dispirited discussion of the forthcoming election. (And not just the presidential contest; the carpetbagging ways of Zephyr Teachout, the former gubernatorial candidate now trolling for a congressional seat, are evoked.) In one especially pungent sequence, George talks about the clerk in the local Bread Alone store who proffers the theory that Monica Lewinsky's act of fellatio on Bill Clinton was a kind of original sin that unleashed the impeachment, the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act, the Marc Rich pardon scandal, the theft of the 2000 presidential election, and the Iraqi War. Everyone is amused, but, really, the joke is on them: Faced with the inevitability of death, watching their daily lives being transformed by changes over which they have no control, alarmed at the increasingly ardent worship of money in the general culture, and presented with a slate of candidates who offer no inspiration, the future looks increasingly uncertain. As Joyce says, "It sort of feels to me like we're all about to jump off some crazy high cliff, doesn't it?"

There's much more, all of it delivered in such offhand fashion that not until the house lights come up do you realize how much has been discussed and how rounded are the dimensions of Nelson's group portrait. This is one case where the author is the perfect director of his own work, working with his cast to forge a style of acting so naturalistic that it barely seems like acting at all. (You may have to listen extra hard at first, given the extremely low-key group acting style, but it's pretty easy to catch on.) Returning from the Apple Family plays are Maryann Plunkett, whose Mary is a study in carefully concealed grief, and Jay O. Sanders, as George, whose comic grousing masks the fact that he finds himself increasingly out of step with the world. Among the newcomers, Meg Gibson is especially touching as Karin, clinging to a family that isn't really hers, and there are solid contributions from Lynn Hawley as Hannah and Amy Warren as Joyce. Even with her reduced stage time, Roberta Maxwell makes a strong impression as Patricia, who is both crusty and a little bit doddering.

These plays feature relatively restrained design values, here exemplified by the spare (but practical) kitchen set by Susan Hilferty and Jason Ardizzone-West, costumes by Hilferty, and lighting by Jennifer Tipton. The sound design, by Scott Lehrer and Will Pickens, is more complex, involving (I think) some subtle reinforcement with a series of effects that includes ticking clocks, piano etudes, and the song "Wildewoman," by the indie band Lucius.

"Today, everybody assumes everybody is negotiating about everything," remarks Hannah, irritated by the entitled city folk who have swamped her town -- words that could also serve as commentary on the campaign of Donald Trump. But the Gabriels have little room for negotiation in a world where the rules are seemingly rewritten daily. What's next for them? Fascinatingly, one imagines that not even Nelson knows for sure, as the subsequent installments will be shaped by political events yet to happen. Whatever comes next, Hungry is an expertly etched panel in the author's increasingly impressive mural of classic liberal culture in decline. -- David Barbour